by C. L. Werner
Wulfrik didn’t know how the remaining machine worked. Somehow the dwarf priests must have used it to heat the idol and roast the offerings trapped in its belly. He had, however, seen how readily the pungent chemical took to fire. Walking over to the machine, the hero nodded to his men. As one, the surviving warriors brought their axes chopping down into the nozzles. The released chemical sprayed across the idol. Khorakk struggled frantically in his bindings as the liquid splashed across him, his screams muffled by his gag.
Fangs gleamed in the growing dawn as Wulfrik smiled at the thegn. Grimly, he planted the point of his sword against the stone base of the dais.
‘I wonder if you’ll give Hashut indigestion,’ Wulfrik said, scraping his sword across the stone, sending sparks flying into the puddles of chemical splashed about the idol.
Chapter Nine
Wulfrik and his warriors hurried down from the ziggurat’s roof. From their vantage point, they could see that the gate at the causeway had been breached. Sigvatr and his men had held the dwarfs back for some hours, but now the vengeful creatures and their hobgoblin minions marched back into the upper reaches of the outpost, scouring every shadow for some sign of the invaders.
The champion watched the progress of the monsters with a sickened heart. He hoped that Sigvatr had abandoned the gate before his retreat was cut off. Wulfrik felt a stab of pain as he thought about the old reaver. Sigvatr was his closest friend and confidant, a sword-brother who had fought by his side long before the Battle of a Thousand Skulls. After all they had been through, he had come to think of the elder warrior as being indestructible, a man who could not be killed. Watching the dwarfs reclaim their outpost, for the first time Wulfrik felt fear for his friend.
‘They’ve cut us off,’ Haukr spat, glaring at the armoured dwarfs forming into ranks before the stronghold’s shattered main gate.
‘No need to go so far for a fight,’ Tjorvi snarled. He pointed the blade of his axe at the dark figures closing around the bridge below. The immortals looked battered after being on the receiving end of Zarnath’s sorcery, but none of the men staring down at them could doubt the dwarfs were still ready for a fight.
Wulfrik grunted as he considered the dwarf warriors. ‘They’re hungry for revenge, not battle,’ he decided. ‘Otherwise they’d be climbing up here to get us right now. They’ll wait for the other dwarfs to join them, then swarm over us in numbers.’ The champion’s teeth gleamed in a cunning smile. ‘We have some time yet.’
‘Time for what?’ objected Tjorvi. ‘To let our ancestors know we’re coming?’
The champion glowered at the Graeling, his intense gaze bringing fear onto Tjorvi’s face. Wulfrik waited until he saw the last flicker of challenge wither inside the warrior. Tjorvi was new, his first voyage with the Seafang. Wulfrik did not begrudge a man his mistakes, so long as he learned from them. Next time Tjorvi tried to panic his crew, Wulfrik would gut him like a fish.
Wulfrik turned away from his cowed follower. He circled around the roof of the ziggurat, walking past the smouldering idol. He paused beside one of the winches. Without hesitation, he brought the edge of his sword crashing down into the heavy chain. A second blow and the dais began to sag in one corner. A third strike of his sword and the chain was broken. Wulfrik sheathed his blade and grabbed the severed end of the chain. Bracing his feet, he tugged violently at it, studying how securely it was fastened to the roof. A wide grin was on his face when he turned back to his men.
‘Let the dwarfs wait for us at the gate,’ he told the marauders. ‘Let their beards go grey and their axes turn to rust.’ Wulfrik wrapped a length of chain around his arm and stalked towards the edge of the ziggurat. Understanding dawned on the faces of his warriors when he threw the heavy chain over the side. Instantly the chain still fixed to the winch began to unspool, following the line as it fell. Faster and faster the chain unwound, hurtling to the ground far below.
Ground on the outside of Dronangkul’s walls.
When the chain grew taut, Wulfrik again tested the strength of its moorings. The dwarfs of the Dark Lands built just as sturdily as their kin in Norsca and the Worlds Edge Mountains. The chain held, resisting Wulfrik’s savage efforts to pull it free. The northman nodded in satisfaction.
‘While they watch the front, we slip out the back,’ Wulfrik told his men. He laughed when he noted the disappointment on Njarvord’s face. ‘It is a long hike back to the Seafang,’ he warned. ‘You may yet get your chance for a fight. But at least it will be a fight on our terms, not the dwarfs’.’
Grimly, Wulfrik seized the chain and began to rappel down the sheer side of the ziggurat. For men accustomed to climbing the craggy sides of Norscan mountains with their bare hands, the descent was absurdly easy. Having observed the outpost from afar, they knew the impossibility of anyone within the stronghold being able to observe what transpired atop the ziggurat. The dwarfs would learn of their escape only when they climbed to the top of their temple to look for themselves.
By that time, Wulfrik hoped, they would be far away. There was something greater than a glorious death in battle driving him now. With Khorakk’s torc in his possession, he felt for the first time there was a real chance to escape the curse the gods had laid upon him. Even without Zarnath’s knowledge, he was certain the torc was the key to his release.
Then he would claim Hjordis’s hand and her father’s place as king of the Sarls.
The marauders quickly left Dronangkul behind them, making for the base of the cliffs overlooking the outpost. It had been agreed before the assault on the stronghold that those who survived the attack would regroup beneath the cliffs before making the long trek back to the River Ruin. Flush with their escape from the ziggurat, the spirits of the northmen fell when they did not see any of their comrades waiting for them. Again, Wulfrik’s mind turned to the dark possibility that Sigvatr had fallen trying to hold the causeway. The champion regretted not leaving his old friend behind to guard the Seafang. A bitter smile flashed across his face as he imagined how violently Sigvatr would have protested being left behind.
‘We had almost given you up for dead,’ Broendulf’s voice suddenly called out. Wulfrik and his men looked up to see the Sarl emerge from hiding, his blade at the ready. Arngeirr limped out from behind another boulder, his kraken-sword dark with greenskin blood. Standing atop one of the rocks, Jokull had his bow at the ready.
Wulfrik nodded respectfully to the warriors he had sent into the pit to free the slaves. ‘The ancestors will drink to your valour,’ he told them. ‘The diversion worked. You drew most of the dwarfs down into the mines to subdue their slaves.’
Broendulf chuckled and ran a thumb along his cheek. ‘I’d rather drink to our valour myself! My ancestors can find their own ale!’ The huscarl’s expression grew serious, his eyes studying his captain before continuing. ‘Your quest was successful?’ he asked at last.
Wulfrik drew the ruby torc from his belt, holding it up high for his men to see. The marauders licked their lips like hungry dogs, sight of the necklace exciting their natural greed. Such a necklace would bring a small fortune to the man who brought it back to Ormskaro’s traders. Thoughts of wealth quickly faded as the northmen remembered who it was that had laid claim upon the torc, and why.
Jokull was the first to recover from the fascinating gleam of the necklace. ‘Now Zarnath can break your curse?’
Angrily, Wulfrik shoved the torc back beneath his belt. ‘The Kurgan fell,’ he said. ‘His magic wasn’t equal to that of the dwarfs.’
‘Then this has all been for nothing?’ Arngeirr snarled, swaying uneasily on his bone leg.
‘I’ll find another warlock!’ Wulfrik snapped. ‘Kharnath’s blood! Witches are thick as lice in the Wastes! One of them will know what Zarnath knew!’ He slapped a fist against the pouch containing the torc. ‘Getting this is the key. Somebody will know the door it fits.’
The marauders were silent, waiting while their captain’s anger ab
ated. They had their own ideas about how easy it would be to replace Zarnath, but each valued his own life too much to express those doubts to Wulfrik. Like a wolf with a bone, the hero was clinging to the hope the shaman had given him. None of the northmen wanted to lose a hand trying to take that hope away from him.
Wulfrik suddenly stared intently at the rocks behind Broendulf. The champion’s hand fell to his sword, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘Who’s back there?’ he growled at Broendulf.
The huscarl stepped aside, allowing Wulfrik a better view of the cliff. ‘Sigvatr and some of the men,’ he said with a shrug. He caught Wulfrik’s arm as the champion rushed forwards. ‘Sigvatr was wounded,’ Broendulf warned. ‘Badly.’
Wulfrik pulled away from the huscarl. Rounding the pile of boulders he found two of the warriors he had left at the causeway kneeling beside Sigvatr. The old war-chief was sprawled on the ground, a rock under his head. His armour had been stripped away, one side of his neck swaddled in a crude compress of wool and leather. Sigvatr’s breath came in ragged gasps, a crimson trickle oozing from beneath the bandage.
Quickly, Wulfrik was beside his old friend. He winced in sympathy as he saw Sigvatr’s pained eyes, the grimace of agony that twisted his face. ‘How did this happen?’ the hero demanded.
The two marauders tending Sigvatr looked nervously at each other. ‘We don’t know,’ the braver of them answered. ‘One moment we were all holding the dwarfs at the gate, with Sigvatr bellowing orders at us. Then we heard him cry out. When we turned away from the gate, we found him lying slumped against the wall.’
‘We… we brought… him out… as quick…’ the other marauder stammered, fear filling his eyes.
Wulfrik turned in disgust before the warrior could finish explaining. Leaning over Sigvatr, he reached for the bandage over his friend’s neck. He would see for himself what had brought down his war-chief.
Sigvatr’s hand closed about Wulfrik’s own, trying to pull his reaching fingers away. His clutch was as feeble as a newborn’s, trembling with effort. There was a desperate, pleading quality in the dying man’s eyes.
Gingerly, with such softness as he could manage, Wulfrik pulled Sigvatr’s hand away. Again he reached for the compress, pulling it back by the corner. The champion’s face became pale as he gazed upon the hideous wound beneath the bandage. He had expected the gory work of axe or blunderbuss; what he had not been ready for was the gruesome sight he had actually found. Sigvatr’s neck had been bitten through by some fanged fiend, a great gouge torn from his body by vicious teeth. He could see vertebrae poking from the wet, dripping meat, a filthy blue venom mingling with the dark arterial blood gushing from the savaged veins. Horrified, Wulfrik pressed the bandage tight again.
Tears fought their way into his eyes as Wulfrik regarded his dying friend. He struggled to keep them from falling. He didn’t want Sigvatr’s last memory of him to be one of weakness.
‘Wulf,’ Sigvatr whispered, his voice a moist croak. ‘Did… did…’
‘Yes,’ Wulfrik answered, displaying the torc for his friend. ‘I took it from the dwarf and burned him in his own oven! They’ll not soon forget us here!’
Sigvatr tried to shake his head. His eyes pinched closed in pain. ‘No… No… Don’t… forget! Mustn’t!’
‘They won’t,’ Wulfrik promised. ‘Wherever they sing the saga of Wulfrik, the name of Sigvatr will also be known!’
Gritting his teeth, blood streaming across his shoulder, Sigvatr struggled to rise. ‘Traitor!’ he croaked. ‘Mustn’t… Agnarr… knew. Can’t… cheat…’ The old warrior’s body stiffened and he slumped against the ground again. Wulfrik leaned close as words bubbled up from Sigvatr’s lips. ‘Beware… traitor…’
Wulfrik laid his hand on Sigvatr’s dead face, shutting the pained eyes gazing blindly at him. In death, there was still an air of agony about his friend’s expression. Wulfrik felt a fury such as he had never known blaze up inside him. When he rose from Sigvatr’s side, his face was pulled back in a snarl, fangs gleaming.
‘He spoke of traitors,’ Wulfrik growled, glaring at the warriors who had brought Sigvatr from the stronghold. ‘How can it be that my friend lies here dead while you two live? How can it be that he was struck down and you did nothing to defend him?’ The champion paced after the marauders as they retreated before him. ‘He was standing near enough for you to hear his cry, yet you did not see what did that to him?’
The two marauders retreated before the menacing approach of their captain. Around them, Broendulf and the others drew their weapons, cutting off any chance of escape.
The warriors’ protests of innocence fell on unheeding ears. A sword was in each of Wulfrik’s hands when he closed upon them. ‘I will not consign Sigvatr’s body to the flame without dogs to lay at his feet,’ the champion hissed. ‘Even if they be cowards and curs!’
One of the marauders rounded upon Wulfrik, charging madly at him with a heavy flail. In a single fluid motion, Wulfrik caught the steel chains of the marauder’s weapon upon his left sword. As the warrior reflexively tried to pull his weapon free, Wulfrik plunged his other sword into the man’s side, burying the blade to the hilt in his ribs. The stricken northman collapsed, his body quivering as life fled through his wound.
The surviving marauder screamed in terror, throwing down his axe, making a display of his empty hands. There was no mercy in the gaze Wulfrik fixed upon him. Sobbing in fear, the man turned, tried to break through the cordon established by the other Norscans. Pitilessly, Njarvord kicked the marauder in the stomach. Haukr grabbed the man by the hair, throwing him back towards Wulfrik.
‘Pick up a weapon,’ the champion snarled at the marauder. The man stared at his axe lying on the bloodied ground, then shook his head in protest, trying again to retreat from the enraged Wulfrik.
‘Coward,’ Wulfrik spat in disgust. He tossed his swords away, disarming himself. He waved at the retreating marauder, beckoning him to attack. Again the warrior eyed his axe lying on the ground, then at his captain’s empty hands.
Shouting a ragged war cry, the marauder sprang forwards, ripping his axe from the earth. Furiously he brought the blade chopping down, seeking to bury it in Wulfrik’s chest. Contemptuously, Wulfrik side-stepped the attack, his powerful hands locking about the marauder’s arm. The champion’s grip tightened, then he wrenched the marauder’s arm around, breaking it at the elbow.
The surge of pain stunned the marauder. He tried to pull himself free of Wulfrik’s clutch, but the vengeful champion would not be denied. Baring his fangs, the fierce hero grappled with the crippled warrior. Clawing fingers sought the marauder’s face, gouging deep into his eye sockets, blood streaming down the man’s tortured visage. Wulfrik shifted his grip, seizing the sides of the man’s head. A single brutal twist and the marauder’s neck snapped. Wulfrik pushed the coward’s corpse away with revulsion.
‘Put those curs at Sigvatr’s feet and find something to burn,’ Wulfrik told his men.
‘Is that smart?’ Broendulf asked. ‘The dwarfs will see the smoke.’
Wulfrik glared at the huscarl. ‘Sigvatr will be paid the honours due to him if it brings every dwarf and goblin in this damned land upon our heads!’ The champion clenched his fist beneath the fair-faced Sarl’s chin. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind three dogs at his feet.’
Broendulf blanched at the hero’s threat. He had seen his captain take reckless chances before, but always from pride or ambition. He had never seen Wulfrik acting from grief before, never seen such blind fury take hold of the champion. It was something that chilled the huscarl’s bones.
Keeping their misgivings to themselves, the Norscans began gathering dead brush from the base of the cliff to fashion a bier for Sigvatr’s pyre.
The polluted banks of the River Ruin stretched before the weary eyes of the northmen. It had taken them days to recross the desert, hiding from the biggest of the hobgoblin patrols, fighting the smaller ones in order to steal the wate
r and provisions they carried. Not a man among them did not bear some scar from their ordeal. They had dared the Dark Land to destroy them and it very nearly had.
Now, as they saw the foul river and the lonely ship anchored in its filthy morass, a thrill of triumph swept through the men. They had braved a deadly and hostile land, fought horrific foes, overcome overwhelming odds and emerged victorious. Great battles and worthy deeds to thrill the hearts of their kinsmen, to fill the songs of the skalds. Glory to honour their ancestors and earn the esteem of the gods themselves. The men who sailed upon the Seafang paid in blood and suffering for the right to be called heroes, but they knew nothing of worth came easy. As they marched towards the river, their minds turned to the welcome they would receive when they returned to Ormskaro, the feasts that would be held in their honour, the gifts King Viglundr and his jarls would bestow upon them, the lithe maidens eager to invite them into their bowers.
Around him, Wulfrik’s warriors laughed and boasted about what they would do when they returned to Norsca. Their captain did not share in their talk, his mind turned to a scorched patch of desert just beyond the walls of Dronangkul and the blackened bones he had left behind. The dwarfs, it turned out, had not investigated the smoke from Sigvatr’s pyre. Crafty and underhand, the dwarfs had stayed behind their walls, suspecting some subterfuge. They were content to wait for the reinforcements marching towards the stronghold before investigating the fire. Wulfrik had bet the dwarfs would display such caution when he ordered Sigvatr’s pyre lit.
Though gamble or not, Wulfrik would not have done differently. He would not have left Sigvatr’s body behind to be picked over by the hobgoblins and scavenged by their wolves. Death and damnation would have claimed him before he allowed such a miserable end for his friend’s bones.
Bitterly, Wulfrik swatted the skull of King Torgald tied to the hilt of his sword. If he had never made his drunken boasts after killing the king none of this would have come to pass. He would already be wed to Hjordis. He would be a great chief of the Sarls, ready to claim Viglundr’s throne when the king passed. And Sigvatr would still be alive.